Ensign Chekov's Sing-Along Blog
by deepfathom
Summary: A top-secret file containing a collection of shorter Chekov and/or otherwise Star Trek-related stories. Each will be titled and rated accordingly. Mwahahaaa!
1. The Corridor

**Summery: Weeks into the aftermath following the encounter with Nero, Chekov is struggling to come to terms with one fateful incident. Rated K+**

* * *

 _A/N: I'm not exactly sure where this came from, honestly. I've never, ever had any ideas or even the desire to write for the Star Trek universe and I probably never will again, but after watching all three of the reboots this week, something struck me about the scene where Chekov tries to beam up the Vulcan survivors and…loses one._

 _How would that affect him in the following days, knowing he was the one at the controls? How, being a seventeen year old kid at the time, would he deal with this? I don't have all the answers, not yet, anyway, and since I'm a complete novice in this universe I can't guarantee that everything's canon and/or in character and I'm not necessarily looking for comments or critiques… It's just a scene that I needed to write down._

* * *

 **The Corridor**

It was quiet. A rare and blessed day of relative calm. There were no alerts, no interruptions, no sudden calamities (at least not yet), and everything was running remarkably smoothly. With most of the crew off enjoying some much-deserved shore leave, the place felt oddly deserted, corridors clear of the chaotic congestion of a busy starship, the stillness only broken by footsteps as a tall figure made his way to the bridge.

Usually, James T. Kirk would have taken this as a sign that something big was about to drop, probably something epic and disastrous. Today, however, he was content, willing to hold on to this peaceful anomaly for as long as it lasted, maybe get a thing or two done around here while there were no distractions. And the sooner the better, because he was next in line for some downtime.

As he neared the lift, another sound, a sort of snuffling, coughing sob from just beyond the entrance, caught his attention, drawing him out of the familiar one-track buzz of a captain's thought process he had begun to adopt as the norm. This wasn't a sound one tended to hear within the circulating passages of the _Enterprise_ , even with no one else around. Curious, he paused, one foot still poised to take him where he knew he should be by now, suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling that he should take a second to check it out.

Kirk had never been one to go against gut instinct and backtracked automatically, poking his head around the corner…

He froze, stomach sinking.

At the farthest end of the adjoining corridor was a hunched human figure, gold shirt, black pants, sitting with forehead resting on drawn-up knees while hands gripped at hair. And there were tears. Kirk couldn't see them, but there was no doubt they were there.

The kid was a complete whiz. Pure genius with a bright future and all the enthusiasm to back it…but he was still just a kid. Seventeen, in fact. Barely old enough to drive on Earth let alone navigate a Federation starship through uncharted space.

And yet here he was. One of the crew. Part of the family.

Naturally, Chekov was expected to be at peak performance, mentally, physically and emotionally, no matter the situation, but even the senior staff, of which he happened to be a member, needed a break here and there. What was he doing still aboard the ship while pretty much everyone else was recharging and living it up on the planet below?

It occurred to Kirk then that it had been several weeks since their harrowing encounter with Nero. Without Chekov's brilliant, quick-witted calculations at the transporter console, Kirk and several others would no longer be here. For that and his more than admirable conduct during the entire ordeal, the Ensign had been subjected to a long string of generous commendations, always accepting them with a modest nod and his friendly smile. However, it soon became evident that there was something dark and guilt-ridden eating at him beneath the forced cheerful exterior. It was hard to miss, even for those who didn't know him well.

Day by day, they observed as the smile faded, the shoulders drooped, the eyes dulled, eclipsing the vibrant personality everyone had grown to love. Obviously, this wasn't typical Chekov behavior and now that he thought about it, _really_ thought about it, Kirk finally came to a conclusion and had to wonder how the boy had managed to keep it bottled up inside for this long.

Well, until now.

Chekov appeared to have collapsed here in the hall on the way to his destination, façade shattered, emotions left raw and exposed. It pained Kirk to imagine how many times the kid must have repeated this journey within the last month - retreating to the safety of some private sanctuary, letting it all out, gathering a shred of composure in order to face the world again, only for it to come to a crashing end on the floor of a mostly empty starship.

It was never Kirk's intention to callously glaze over the Nero incident and shove onward. The newly-promoted Captain of the _Enterprise_ had simply been so busy handling the aftermath and juggling new responsibilities that he'd hardly stopped to think about how it might have affected everyone else…how it might have affected their youngest shipmate, a key player in one event in particular.

He needed to address this, he needed to fix this, right here, right now. Clearing his throat, the Captain stepped around the corner.

Chekov started, head snapping up and face draining of all color when he saw who was joining him.

"Keptin!" he spluttered, drawing a sleeve across his face in a pointless attempt to clear the evidence of his distress while scrambling unsuccessfully to jump to his feet. "I'm sorry, Keptin, I was just…"

Coming toward him, Kirk lifted a hand. "No, no, as you were, Mister Chekov. I think I know why you're here."

"Y-you do?" There was a note of worry in the crewman's voice.

Kirk came to a standstill, then lowered himself to claim a patch of floor a few feet away from the young man. Chekov stiffened a little, not entirely sure what to think of this move.

It was Kirk who broke the slightly awkward silence. "I've noticed a pretty sizable drop in your performance lately."

The teen's features dissolved into a poorly concealed expression of intense anxiety.

"Something you want to talk about?"

As expected, the answer came a little too fast, a little too abruptly.

"No, sir. I'm sorry, sir. I'll…I'll try to do better." The navigator made to get up again, eager to be free from the scrutiny of his commanding officer.

"Whoa, hold on a sec, you're not in trouble and I'm not gonna chew you out or anything like that, so relax. I'm just very concerned. We all are."

The kid nodded, settling again (albeit uneasily) with his arms folded on top of his knees, unable to return Kirk's gaze and swallowing hard before opening his mouth. For a second, the Captain thought he'd coaxed out a response, but within the same beat, Chekov was chewing a lip instead of offering answers. Perhaps another angle?

"Chekov, all I want...no, all _we_ want is for you to be ok. You're part of this crew. A big part. And when somebody isn't pulling his weight…well, you probably get where I'm headed with this speech, so I'll skip to the end where I ask you, both as your Captain and friend…what's going on?"

The muscle working in the younger crewman's temple hinted at the difficult battle being waged within.

"It's…it's just…" he said at last, "a few weeks ago…in ze transporter room when…"

Kirk waited.

"Keptin…I lost her. I should hef been able… I…lost C-commander Spock's m-m…" Chekov choked on the last word, face falling again while his fists clenched.

This was as much of an explanation as Kirk was going to get, but it was all he needed.

"I understand," he said, crossing his arms atop his own knees. "It was truly, unfathomably… _horrific_ , but it was ultimately an accident. Beyond your control. Beyond _anyone's_ control. And I need _you_ to understand that as much as we want and try to, we can't always save everyone."

Chekov remained silent, a single tear escaping his failing emotional ruse as he closed his eyes.

"It's the grittier end of what we do out here and it hurts, I know. It hurts like the mother of all…" the senior officer caught himself, deciding that now was not exactly the time for expletives. "It wasn't your fault. Any of it. And don't you dare think for a second that _anybody_ aboard this ship blames you."

"Y-yes, Keptin," came the rather unconvincing reply.

"The only one still beating you up about it is…well, yourself. It's killing you from the inside and you have _got_ to _stop_. That's an order."

A slight nod. "Aye, Keptin."

Kirk sighed. "Listen, you're not alone on the _Enterprise_ and we're gonna get through this. Together. People care about you and want to help you climb out of this hole, me included. And one day you'll realize that…that things just…happen. Things we can't predict, things we can't control or change and we may never figure out why they go the way they do. That doesn't make them any less painful or real, but…"

Kirk drifted, offering a raised eyebrow and an encouraging smile as Chekov at last turned a pair of bloodshot eyes toward him.

"In the meantime, our job is to be here for each other, to remember what we've lost and cherish what we have left…and hang on for the next ride."


	2. Ask A Stupid Question

**Summery: Somewhere...in the vast and awesome expanse of space...there is a nebula. And inside this nebula, there is a planet. And on this planet, there is a forest. And within this forest, two stranded Starfleet officers find themselves having one seriously weird conversation. (Spoilers from all three movies ahead.) Rated K+**

* * *

 _A/N: Remember how I said I'd likely never write anything for the Star Trek reboot universe again? Yyyyeaaahh...I think I lied. I don't know how these things occur to me, but in recent days I've found myself randomly wondering what might have transpired in that conveniently blank space in Star Trek Beyond between Kirk and Chekov walking into Jaylah's trap and being reunited with Scotty._

 _And holy crap, I swear I have never, ever revised and rewritten and rethought a piece of my own writing as much as I have this one. I mean, of all the scenes I could have chosen, it had to be the one with a virtually limitless goldmine of entertaining dialogue opportunities. I kid you not, since I started writing yesterday, Kirk and Chekov must have held at least fifty different conversations on various topics to varying degrees of weird/awkwardness inside my head before I finally settled on the current incarnation. And boy, if that isn't all kinds of insane, I don't know what is. And now, for some odd reason, every though that pops into my head is in this phony Russian accent..._

 _Wow. Something tells me I really need to rethink my life choices and find better uses for my time and mental faculties._

* * *

 **Ask a Stupid Question**

James T. Kirk was perfectly capable of handling himself in almost any conceivable situation. Up to now, it seemed he'd faced it all—tribble invasions, renegade inter-planetary terrorists, Bones' charming morning demeanor when deprived of coffee—and had always managed to come off in significantly better shape than his opponent. Granted, there _was_ that one tiny little incident where he kind of sort of _actually_ died and then came back to life, thanks, ironically, to a tribble…

But this? This was uncharted territory. A whole different animal.

There was not a "How to Shoot the Breeze in the Least Awkward Way Possible While Cocooned in a Very Uncomfortable Sheet of Rock With a Fellow Crewmember" course included in the Academy's curriculum, but there definitely should have been. Who knew he would one day end up adding "small-talk" to his ever-growing arsenal of impressive (and rather miraculous) survival tactics?

Better to get things rolling than sit here in silence. The Captain cleared his throat.

"So, uh, Chekov. We haven't talked in a while. How's…how's it going?"

As expected, the response arrived coated in a generous layer of surprise and confusion.

"I...what, Sir?"

"I said 'how's it's going'. You know, 'what's up', 'how've you been'…"

Chekov couldn't conceal the hint of uncertainty and slight annoyance in his voice. "I...I'm not sure why this even needs explaining, Keptin, but...I'm stuck."

Kirk sighed. "Don't I know the feeling? Seems like we've all been in a rut for the past—"

"No, I mean stuck. As in 'I can't move, please send help'."

"Oh." It was probably a good thing he couldn't smack himself upside the head for that. "Right, right, sorry..."

As a prominent crewman of the _Enterprise,_ Chekov had experienced more than his fair share of exciting, terrifying, dangerous and often downright weird exploits, but any sane person would find it difficult not to at least _worry_ in the face of something as bizarre as their current predicament. After all, it wasn't every trip to a planet's surface where one was suddenly fused mid-jump alongside your Captain into a lump of rock that you could have sworn was a cloud of smoke only two seconds before.

Yes, Kirk thought, the uncertainty and annoyance was completely justified.

"Permission to be, um...blunt, Sir?" Chekov nudged into his thoughts, leaving him teetering on the brink of the rest of the sentence.

For half a second, Kirk wasn't sure wanted to know what Chekov had to say that would require that particular request. It wasn't one he tended to use often.

"Go ahead," Kirk replied finally.

Chekov took a breath. "My girlfriend kicked me out, ze _Enterprise_ has been destroyed, we are stranded on an unfamiliar planet, and now we've basically been turned into statues. I can't sink of _anything_ zat could make this day worse..."

"Yeaaaah, that was maybe not the best topic to start -"

"...except for ' _how's it going_ '. I mean, could you hef asked a more...more..."

"Stupid question?" The senior officer quirked an eyebrow, slightly amused.

"I was going to say 'frustrating', but I like 'stupid' better."

"Duly noted, Mister Chekov. And agreed with..." Kirk paused, momentarily distracted by yet another unavoidable urge to struggle against the hard, resin-like shell confining him. "Wait, hang on a sec, I think I've got it this time—rgh! I just have to...I might be able to crack—nguuh!"

"Keptin, with all due respect, allow me to remind you _again_ zat ze chances of either one of us breaking free are nearly impossible."

"With equally due respect, allow me to remind you, Mister Chekov, that I don't believe in no-win scenarios. Besides, a guy can hope, can't he? And…also maybe cry just a tiny bit, because let's face it, this is just plain humiliating."

"What _is_ this stuff, anyvay?"

"Inconvenient, that's what," Kirk grunted through his teeth, wishing he could kick something.

"Not to, uh…how do you say it…? Ah! Not to shower ze parade, but I hef a feeling we're far beyond 'inconwenient'."

 _Thank you, Lieutenant Obvious._

The younger officer was right, however. Perhaps "dire" was a more suitable expression?

"Sooo, I understated a little. Sue me."

Chekov choked back a hollow laugh. "A _little_?"

"And I believe the saying you're looking for is 'I hate to rain on your parade', not…whatever it was you said. Credit for originality, though."

"Sank you, Sir." Chekov made a point of clearing his throat and moving on. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Keptin, but this…material…doesn't seem to fit in with ze local enwironment, don't you sink?"

A faint, reluctant smile flickered at the corners of the Captain's mouth. Even at his worst, the kid's wheels were turning, always itching to get technical. Well, if they were going to discuss something other than "how's it going", they might as well make it useful.

"All right, I'm listening. Hit me with it."

"Ok, let's assume, for all intents and purposes..."

 _Hoo boy, here we go..._

"...that we're dealing with an intelligent being...say, one at least on ze same level as ze average human. If they are indigenous to ze area, it would make sense zat they hef established methods of defense. Ze substance we are currently encased in could hef been planted here as part of an elaborate—"

Kirk couldn't help himself. "Have I ever told you how much you're starting to sound like Spock lately?"

"Uh…no, I don't sink so. Is…is zat bad?"

"Not necessarily. I'd say it's more along the lines of irrita..."— _red alert, wrong word, wrong word, wrong word, abort mission—_ "...aaayyiiintelligent. It makes you sound very, very intelligent. But, like...who even comes up with the freaky junk we're always running into on this trip, anyway?"

"Huh?"

"Doesn't it ever bother you?" Kirk plowed on, hoping he'd sufficiently smoothed over the blunder. "Knowing there's some weirdo around every corner designing a heinous contraption and plotting your demise?"

The younger man gulped. "It does now."

"Because it seems to happen to us a lot. You've gotta admit it raises some serious moral questions." Wait, where was he going with this, again? Meh, never mind, not important. "I mean, what kind of diabolical psycho goes around saying 'hey, I wonder what might happen if I put this big, crystalizing smoke cloud thingy in the middle of the forest for somebody to aimlessly wander—"

"I sink this may be some kind of…security dewice, actually."

"Yes, thank you, that makes me feel so much better."

"Hey, don't look at me, I just work here."

"Pffftwhatinthe -" snorted the Captain after a stunned beat. "Where did you pick _that_ one up? Was it Scotty? I bet it was Scotty."

"No, it's an old Russian expression. Everybody knows zat."

"Uhhh, sure. Sure it is." He couldn't decide whether this was serious or if Chekov was playing up the ol' everything-that-exists-is-from-Russia bit again. Either way, Kirk didn't feel much like countering.

"Go on…"

"Yes, now zat we've triggered ze dewice, there's a chance whoever set it will come back to check, no?"

"Uh-huh-huuuugh," Kirk shuddered. "Ick. Did you _have_ to put it like that?"

"How else was I supposed to put it?"

"Oh, I don't know, how about rephrasing it in a way that doesn't make me feel like we're a couple of over-sized bugs in a glue trap? Gives me the creeps."

"How about I rephrase it in Russian?" asked Chekov flatly. "Everysing sounds better when you say it Russian."

"Who- _hoa_!" Kirk couldn't suppress a broad grin. "Easy on the snark, there. Who are you and what have you done with my mild-mannered navigator?"

"'Snark'?"

"Since when have you been such a spitfire? Bones must be rubbing off on you too. I'll have to have a word with him if we make it out of this in one piece."

"What is 'snark'?"

"Sass. Audacity. Chutzpah. In other words, you've officially grown into every adult's God-given right to be a sarcastic...uh, person. Feels pretty good, though, doesn't it?"

As if trying to sidestep the matter entirely, Chekov forced a sort of guilty cough, and although Kirk couldn't turn his head to see, he could practically feel the embarrassed heat radiating from him.

"I'm wery sorry, Sir," the younger officer backpedaled, "it won't happen—"

"It's all right, you can drop the formalities now, Chekov. We're in the boondocks, not on the bridge—"

"Boom…ducks?"

"—and I'm only saying that it's another facet of your budding personality we haven't had the privilege of experiencing yet. And that's _boon-docks_ , by the way."

 _Shiploads of technical jargon and yet..._

"Boomducks. Zat's what I said."

"Uh, no. No, it's not. _Boon_ … _docks_. It rhymes with 'spoon' and 'socks'."

"Boooondocks," Chekov tested the word again, trying to get his tongue around it.

"Yup, there you go."

"Hm. Why has no one introduced me to this word until now?"

"Probably because it has nothing whatsoever to do with reading star charts and plotting courses for a starship. Or daily conversation unless you're in a cruddy situation like we are right now. That and we're kind of scraping the bottom of the conversational topic barrel."

"Boondocks. Ha, boondocksboondocksboondocks."

"Ok, I think you've got it down—"

"Booooooondooooocks!" Chekov shouted, letting the sound of his voice bounce between the trees a few times. "I like this word."

"I noticed."

"I'm going to use it every day from now—wait a second, you never told me what it means. What are ze 'boondocks'?"

Kirk rolled his eyes. "It's a slang term for 'middle of nowhere'. Heyyy, look at that. Nothing like a complimentary vocabulary lesson to pass the time, amiright?"

"More like an in…inwol…inwolllluntary wocabulary... Ok, zat sounded much better inside my head."

"Mouthful of irony much?" chuckled the Captain, knowing full well he was going to regret it down the road if Chekov and Sulu were ever reunited. When those two put their heads together... "Careful, I don't want you hurting yourself. I might need your brain later."

Chekov responded with a choice bit of snappy of Russian.

"Pavel Andreievich _Chekov_! Does your mother know you use that kind of language?"

"Ha! Like you would even know what I said!"

"Ehhh, I got the gist. Regardless, I probably deserved it."

" _Z_ at you did."

"Y'know, I hope we all live long enough to see more of this side of you. It's certainly interesting. And kinda… _edgy_."

"Ed—" Chekov started.

"Bold, new and exciting. Trust me, a little shot of that fire every now and then can go a long way, especially at times like this. Just, uh…just don't let it go to your head. That's guaranteed to get you into a world of trouble…and potentially rearrange your face along the way."

Total silence.

"Aaand I lost you back there, didn't I?"

"Yeah."

"It basically boils down to 'be careful who you insult, don't be an idiot, eat your veggies, whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger', all of that mentor-y crap…" Kirk trailed off as a fresh thought came to him. "Speaking of things that can kill you…"

"Ayy-yi-yi," groaned the younger crewman. "Can we not and say we did?"

"I wonder what kind of big, hairy, wild animals are running around this place? Like... _bears_. Wait, no, not bears, of course there wouldn't be bears, ha, what am I thinking?"

"I'm...starting to wonder ze same sing, to be honest." There was a touch of concern under the humor in Chekov's words.

"Wow. Wow, sorry, I'm so whacked and exhausted right now, like...I'm not even sure I _am_ thinking, let alone what about. It's not like we've all been through a giant, catostrophic ordeal recently or anything. And before you ask, in this context, 'whacked' means—"

"I _know_ what it means."

"Huh... Ok, then, pardon me for asking, but which one of the crew beat me to the punch?"

"Sulu."

"Ah, figures. So, what about you?"

"Me?"

" _Yes_ , you, Chekov. Do you see anybody else I could be talking to?"

"No, but at ze rate you're going, soon it won't matter much if there's actually anyone here or not."

"Hardy-har. Remind me never to mention the word 'snark' around you ever again."

"So, what _about_ me?"

"I've voiced my thoughts, now I'm curious to hear yours. We've got the time. Tell me, what's going through that genius head right about now?"

There was no hesitation. "I'm sinking I'm ready to get out of ze boondocks."

He should have known.

 _Well,_ Kirk said to himself, _ask a stupid question…_


	3. Morning Report

**Ok, but what if Captain Kirk did a "morning announcements" thing over the intercom every day? XD Rated K**

* * *

 **Morning Report**

 _"Good mooooooorning,_ Enterprise! _This is your dashing young Captain speaking and we've got a lot of announcements to get through, so sit back and listen to the melodious sound of my voice."_

(*Crew stops whatever they're doing throughout ship to groan and roll eyes collectively*)

 _"First up, happy birthday to Lieutenant Ross, Ensign Jones, and science officers Chotikua, Benson, and finally, Itaaeaguchi-sloohito'niknik'ra of security, who has reached the ripe old age of one-hundred-and-thirty-seven living cycles. He should be through the worst of the violently aggressive pubescent stage by now and emerging from his cocoon any time, but if you happen to cross paths with any of the other afore mentioned individuals today, make sure to give them a big hug. Oh, and just a heads-up, if anyone has plans for birthday cake later, due to a programming malfunction, the replicators are currently unable to produce vanilla or golden fronzelberry frosting."_

(Ensign Jones: "Aw, mannn!")

 _"But don't worry, we've got our very own Mister Scott and his faithful sidekick Mister Chekov working on it right now."_ *Muffled Scottish cursing in the background* _"Apologies for any inconvenience. Next, Mister Hendorff has requested that I remind everyone of the upcoming hostile takeover drill and to please put the phaser rifles back in order on the rack when we're done. It's not that hard, just go by the matching color-coded stickers. His words, not mine."_

(Random crew member: "Pfft, ok, whatever.")

 _"And now, in recreational news, the ship's book group will be meeting next Thursday for their monthly discussion. This month's novel is the thrilling mystery 'Who Moved My Tribble", by the best-selling author Otis Skyflip. There's still time to read it if you haven't already, and you really should. Really. I did and it changed my life."_

(Random fangirl crew member: "I love you Otis! I love you! Save the tribbles!")

 _"Also, the championship tournament of the interdepartmental volleyball league will be happening Friday night between engineering and medical. It's sure to be a nail-biter and keep you on your toes, so don't miss out! Speaking of toes, the Dinerian swing-dancing/karaoke/vegetarian potluck is the night after. The last one was a huge success, although, may I remind everyone that the carbonated froos-fassang flavored frappe–you know, the one with the rainbow sprinkles and whipped cream and stuff–is no longer allowed in the rec hall due to last week's little 'incident'. It took three days to get that stuff out of the carpet. I'm looking at you, Lieutenant Lester."_

(Lieutenant Lester: "Hey, I didn't do that! I was framed!")

 _"And…"_ *Someone else whispering in background* _"Oh, right, thank you for bringing that up, Uhura. Ok, would whoever keeps writing 'command rules and operations drools' on the walls of the deck three bathrooms please stop? It was funny the first time, but now it's just stupid. Also, it's vandalism. Again, I'm looking at you, Lieutenant Lester."_

(Lieutenant Lester: "Wha–why do I get blamed for everything?!")

 _"Anyway, before I get to the menu, a few housekeeping issues. It has come to my attention that the ship's lost-and-found is starting to get a little out of hand. If you don't claim your missing items by the end of this week–especially whoever misplaced the tank of flesh-eating cacti–everything will be donated to the Rigel colony. Well…except for the tank of flesh-eating cacti, I mean. And lastly, people are forgetting to turn the headlights off after using the shuttles. Turn the lights off, guys. We can't have low batteries when the Klingons decide to attack again. Bad. Very, very bad."_

(Lieutenant Lester: "…..Ok, I may...have actually done that.")

 _"Alright, now the moment you've all been waiting for…"_

(Random crew member: "Just say it already, geez!")

 _"…the menu! Today we will be having Andorian-style enchiladas with the options of mild, medium or volcanic hot-sauce–there will be medics on standby, of course–purple guacamole, mixed galactic fruit salad, chocolate chunk cookies, and, by popular demand, Kaferian apple juice."_

(Entire crew: "YESSS!")

 _"That's all I've got for now, folks. Thanks for listening, I'll be here all–"_

(*Mic crackles*)

 _"Vaccines for Regulan blood worm-transmitted flu have arrived and are mandatory for all crew members, so get down here to medbay and–"_

(*Mic screeches, everybody covers their ears*)

 _"Yes, thank you, Bones. As I was saying, keep being awesome, live long and prosper, have a wonderful day, all that stuff. Go get'em gang! Woo! Kirk out!"_


	4. Half-Baked

Written for a challenge on tumblr. The prompt was "I love you a lot, but please stop trying to cook me dinner, you suck", with AOS Chekov as the central character, and I have to say, this ended up going in a completely unanticipated direction. My brain is funny that way. XD Also, I may or may not suddenly ship Chekov and Jaylah for no reason?

 **...**

 **Half-Baked**

 **Rated K, set after "ST: Beyond"**

It had to be a malfunction; at the worst, some new, covert weapon of biological warfare placed by rogue spies, at the least, a poorly-planned prank that had gone much too far. All speculations aside, the fallout left everyone wondering what had crawled up a Jeffries Tube and spontaneously combusted. No course, no training simulation from the Academy, not even years of on-the-job experience, could have prepared them for a catastrophe of this magnitude.

An entire deck of the _Enterprise_ had been evacuated, sealed off and declared a biohazard. Now on full alert, every crewmember that could be spared raced frantically around the ship in search of the source of the explosion and subsequent stench.

Little did they know that one of their own held the answer. One person could solve this mystery with nothing more than a few words. That person was Pavel Andreivich Chekov, and he was currently wedged in the tiny space between a cooling tank and a large conduit containing of colorful cables. It wasn't an ideal hiding place, by any means, but it was concealed deep within the labyrinthine underbelly of engineering, nearly impossible to locate–unless Scotty was the one looking.

"Oy, laddie!"

Though not unfamiliar, the greeting was unexpected, causing an already on-edge Chekov to release a small yelp.

"Meester Scott!" he blurted as the engineer came into view. "I…I just…I was…ayyy-yi-yi…" With forced enthusiasm, Chekov began polishing the conduit with a sleeve. "Wow, look at this thing, it's wery, um…dirty!"

Scotty, of course, saw right through the flimsy ruse, knowing full well that Chekov would never come down to engineering without purpose, and especially not to dust off the equipment. Besides, no amount of scrubbing with any kind of material, let alone the sleeve of a Starfleet uniform, was ever going to cut through the grease and grime that built up in the nooks and crannies of this place.

"All righ'," said Scotty, "what've yeh gone and blown up?"

"What? No, I didn't—I hef only caused two explosions on this ship, you know that!"

"Did yeh just treat us all to the third?"

"No, it was Jaylah…"

"Jaylah?" Scotty's eyebrows jumped skyward. "Jaylah blew somethin' up?

"Er, sort of. I…she…she was making me dinner. Again." Chekov cringed as if he'd spilled the galaxy's juiciest, best-kept secret.

Lost for words, Scotty gawked at his friend and colleague, the corners of his mouth slowly lifting into a grin.

"Jaylah caused an explosion," he repeated, mostly to hear himself say something so absurd out loud, "because she was…makin' yeh dinner?"

Raising an index finger, Chekov opened and closed his mouth a few times, then the floodgates gave way and he began to babble.

"Uh, yes, see, we hef been talking off and on for a while and when she came aboard a couple weeks ago, one thing led to another and now…we hef— _ahem_ —kind of…sort of become a…thing?"

The Chief Engineer crossed his arms. "Ah, no' going too well, then?"

"Oh, no, no, we're fine! Or we _were_ fine, it's just…she's been taking a cooking class back at ze Academy…"

Oh no. This could only be heading in one direction.

"Aha, guinea pig?"

" _Da_." The navigator made a face and clutched at his stomach.

This simple action told Scotty more than Chekov ever could have with words. On a closer look, he noted that the younger officer did indeed seem to be sporting a faint green tinge around the edges.

"Et's all righ' wee man, come on ou' and say et. I won't tell a soul."

"She's terrible!" Chekov immediately moaned, then caught himself. "Wait, no, I mean _she's_ not terrible, she's brave and smart and wonderful, but…"

"But…?"

"Her cooking isn't!" He let his head fall into his hands. "This is awful. She is excited to show me all ze things she has been working so hard to learn and I always tell her to keep trying, but I just can't do it anymore."

"Do wha', now?"

"I don't want to disappoint her, so I just…I just eat everything she makes and tell her I love it. I've never been this this sick in my life. I hef been in and out of medbay three times this week alone. _Three_ times, Meester Scott! And Doctor McCoy is conwinced I'm being slowly poisoned to death by a malewolent stalker. And…well, he's not _completely_ wrong."

"I gather yeh haven't told anyone but me aboot this yet?"

Chekov swallowed, running a hand through his hair. "Heh, up until five minutes ago, no. That was when everything did ze kaputs."

"The 'kaputs', eh?" The truth, bizarre as it was, made Scotty chuckle. He knew he shouldn't, but he simply couldn't hold it back. "Oh, I canae wai' t'see the look on the captain's face when I drop this one on'im."

Scrambling to his feet, Chekov trotted close behind the engineer as he hurried away.

"I was wery nice about it, though!"

Scotty snorted. "Aye, I can see tha'."

"I said 'please', told her how incredible she is and that it was probably ze fault of ze oven's, not her's. I even offered to proofread her paper on ze recent adwancements of deep space telemetry. She may hef overreacted…just a little. Uh, to me telling her, not ze paper."

Scotty stopped, spinning around to face him. "A _little_?"

Chekov paled and reached out to grasp the other man firmly by the shoulders, wide-eyed gaze growing distant as though he were reliving some horrifying memory.

"Meester Scott…I…I had no idea ze modern kitchen appliances were capable of experiencing a full-on meltdown."

"Meltdown?" He might have considered the term extreme had he not already witnessed the chaos said meltdown had caused. "Wha' was the lass tryin' t'cook? A dead, radioactive skunk inside a twice-baked torpedo?"

"No, much worse…"

"Wha' can be worse than tha'?"

Chekov barely contained a dry-heave. "A–ughk!–s-salad."


	5. The Other Side

**They may not be much, but words are all I know how to give. In memory of Anton Yelchin, our Pasha, our Chekov: March 1989 - June 2016**

* * *

 _What will be left when I've drawn my last breath_

 _Besides the folks I've met and the folks who know me?_

 _Will I discover a soul saving love or_

 _Just the dirt above and below me? -_ "Doubting Thomas", by Nickel Creek

...

For as long as any of them could remember, they had been trained to carry on under even the direst circumstances, to respond accordingly to any situation that might arise, and they had survived by coming together as a family. It was why they were strong, their confidence in each other seemingly indestructible. It was why none of them were prepared for one of their closest to be singled out and snatched away…least of all him.

In the smoky, sparking aftermath, he'd rushed between his comrades, wondering why they shouted his name yet didn't respond or even look in his direction when he answered. He grew frightened and desperate, crying into the chaos for clarification before someone found a light…and he saw himself…the broken remnants of what he used to be.

Realization hit with a savage force he'd never known, then exploded into a hailstorm of fragmented memories and sensations.

It had all been so quick, so confusing, so… _surreal_. A fiery blast. One moment there. A flare of intense pain and a split second of darkness later, gone. Body and spirit severed without the grace of a final breath.

The blunt, physical shock paled under the agony now crumbling down on him like an avalanche of stones. It was a deep, heavy agony, the kind that only the heartbreak of helplessly witnessing the suffering of those held most dear can create. It brought him trembling to his knees and, though they could no longer hear him, he wept with his loved ones, mourning the loss of what had been and cursing the terrifying truth of what would never be.

Weeping swelled into earnest pleas for another chance, a few minutes to say goodbye, some way to reverse what had transpired, but he knew it was impossible. The universe simply didn't work that way. It never had and it never would.

His friends—his _family_ would face the coming days cradled in each other's arms and wrapped in the warm security of friendship.

He would face them alone.

…

A starship was not an ideal place for those seeking to forget and find respite in the wake of tragedy. Yes, crewmembers still traversed the halls, systems still functioned, duties were still performed, but there were subtle reminders waiting for them around every corner. A chessboard in the rec hall missing a piece, snippets of Russian overheard one corridor over, the wrong person serving in the position of navigator. It was still the _Enterprise_ , but it would never be the same.

Yet he lingered. Wandered. Simply refused to move on until he could be certain his kin would have peace and safety in his absence. A silent sentinel in a separate existence, he kept watch over them, aching to ease their sorrow, pining to be with them again, searching listlessly in this vast new emptiness for any small glimmer of hope to cling to.

Days rushed into weeks, weeks into months. The living world rolled on around and without him and he saw it all as if through a grey shroud. He saw them hurt and question and blame. He saw them plead, much like he had, for just a moment more. He saw them wonder how they could possibly go on. He saw them draw closer as only a family could and commence the thankless journey down the thorny road to healing.

His friends gradually seemed to gain an awareness of his presence, and with it came a touch of acceptance, a ray of sweet, serene understanding piercing the clouds. Smiles drove away sadness and laughter began to replace tears as they celebrated the period of time, however brief, they'd been blessed to share with him.

He smiled too, finally reassured that he would forever remain entwined within these precious souls and ready to discover what awaited him among the stars. Though he'd left behind a gaping chasm in one world, the bond they all shared reached into the next, never to be broken so long as memory served to soften the edges.

This didn't have to be the end.


	6. The Smoosh

_A/N: I wrote this a while ago, but never posted it because I thought it was kinda stupid. But I came across it today while looking through files and thought eh, why not? Takes place after the events of Star Trek Beyond and Jaylah has graduated from the academy in record time at the top of her class (because she would totally do that) and now serves on the_ Enterprise _._ _I still ship Jaylov, but more platonically than romantically, although the thought of them being a thing is pretty entertaining. :)_

* * *

 **The Smoosh**

 **Rated K+**

Being a crewmember aboard the newly rechristened _Enterprise_ definitely had its perks, but time wasn't one of them. It was a rare and beautiful moment when the two could slip into the wiry, labyrinthine undergrowth of engineering together. More often than not, when even the slightest opportunity presented itself, it was taken without question. Forget about taking a breather or grabbing lunch. There were more important matters to attend to, such as deliberating advanced transporter theory and the various difficulties that arose when one's native language was something other than Federation Standard.

Today, between the socket wrenches and the soldering and the endless grease, they had about five minutes to choose a topic and wring out every possible drip of stimulating conversation. Strangely, though, something about this particular escapade felt off and Chekov couldn't quite pinpoint it. Something had…changed. He could tell by her unusually distant air and pursed lips that Jaylah could feel it too.

Nevertheless, the couple made the now familiar journey through the wires, bulkheads and beams to the tiny nook they'd happened upon a month or so earlier. It was nothing special, just a gap between one set of pipes and the next, but perfect for cultivating a budding friendship without interruption.

Just as they had many times before now, they each took a seat on the floor and leaned back on their respective pipes. Normally, this was where the two would fall effortlessly into deep discussion and remain oblivious to the rest of the world until they were compelled to rejoin it. Today, however, neither seemed to want to begin the conversation.

Jaylah suddenly became engrossed with the nails of one hand while Chekov drew his knees up under his chin, wrapped his arms around them and surveyed their surroundings. They were nothing he nor Jaylah had never seen before and, to be honest, were pretty uninteresting.

This was how they sat for a good thirty seconds before Chekov finally forced a small cough and shifted position.

"I, um…" he started.

"Yes, well…" Jaylah said at the same time.

"Wery sorry, you go first—"

"No, I—what is it that you wanted to say, Pavel Chekov?"

"Oh, n-nothing, I was just going to—did you need to tell me some—"

The two froze, abruptly realizing that they were now sitting much closer than before the awkward exchange. If he wanted to, he could reach out and touch her hand, but why in the _galaxy_ would he ever want to do a thing like that? It made no sense. And yet…

He blinked up, catching a yellow glint as Jaylah did the same. And then, very slowly, her grimy, grease-smudged hand moved toward his, fingers wrapping firmly around it. A tiny, hopeful smile flickered on her lips and Chekov couldn't help but return it.

"Pavel Chekov, I…" she started quietly, then shook her head.

"What? You can tell me, it's okay." He already knew, but he needed to hear it anyway. He needed to hear it from her. Maybe then it would feel real.

Encouraged, she took a breath. "I think I have…a feeling for you. Many feelings, actually."

"Y-you do? I mean…I think I do too—I mean, I hef a feeling—uh, feelings—for _you_ , not for myself…"

She gave a small laugh, scooting a tiny bit closer. "I know what it is you meant."

They sat in silence for a moment, grinning as a radiating warmth thawed their previous stiffness. Then, as if they'd been together for years, Jaylah lowered her head until it was resting on his shoulder. In return, he did what only seemed natural, circling an arm around her back and drawing her in for a gentle kiss on the cheek…

To his surprise, Jaylah sat up immediately and turned to stare at him, head tilted to one side in what he hoped was utter confusion and not outright disgust.

"Are…are you all right, Jaylah?"

"Pavel Chekov…why did you place your lips on my face?"

Mortified, Chekov withdrew like a startled squirrel up a tree. "I—oh, no. Oh, _no_ , I am so sorry, Jaylah! I got caught up in ze moment and I just—too fast. Don't hurt me, please!"

"I would _never_ hurt you! Why would someone putting their lips on my face make me wish to hurt them?"

Chekov's entire countenance burned as he reached up and took a handful of his hair in a fist. "Ayy-yi-yi…uh…let me try to explain. Zat…zat was a kiss."

"A kiss?"

"Yes, when you…uh…smoosh your lips into another person's face…"

"'Smoosh'?"

"Never mind. A kiss is a…sign of affection."

Jaylah became thoughtful, then lit up with comprehension. "Oh! Like what the Dread Pirate Westly gave to the Princess Buttercup in that earth myth we viewed last week?"

Chekov nearly melted in relief. " _Da_! Yes! Exactly. Except he was just 'Westly' by then."

Her countenance fell back into confusion. "But…when you say 'affection', you refer to someone you care about."

"Yes."

"So…you give a kiss…to someone you care about? To _show_ them that you care?"

"Um, well, it depends…"

"Does…does that mean I must kiss _everyone_ I care about?" Her eyes widened. "Do I have to kiss Montgomery Scotty?!"

"No! No, no, no, please don't kiss Montgomery Scotty! Zat would be wery, _wery_ weird on a lot of different levels."

"But…I care about him. I care about all of my friends."

Chekov took a steadying breath. "Okay, let me start over. Affection for friends is not ze same as…romantic affection. Same word, different connotations."

She rolled her eyes. "I hate this language. Too many meanings for one stupid word."

"I know how you feel," snorted Chekov, "but what I am saying is that a kiss is usually something zat you give to someone you hef romantic affection for. Strong feelings of more zan just friendship."

"Feelings of love."

"Yes, love."

Jaylah nodded. "Ah, I see now."

"Oh, good," he breathed. "Zat is good."

"But in the legend…" she went on, "the Dread Pirate Westly gave the Princess Buttercup a kiss on her lips. What does that mean?"

"Uh…" Chekov cleared his throat, "well, it means _baaasically_ ze same thing, but ze feelings are much…deeper."

"True love. It is a sign of true love."

"Yes. And zat is why I am sorry, Jaylah. I got carried away by my own feelings and—"

"You do not have to be sorry, but I forgive you anyway."

"Th-thank…you?"

She thought a moment, leaving him hanging. "Pavel Chekov, will you smoosh your lips against mine as a sign of romantic affection?"

With a sigh of relief, Chekov practically melted into her. "I thought you would never ask."


End file.
